Apples, cinnamon, and St Bernards
by medcat
Summary: Soon after Sherlock's return, a case takes Sherlock and John to Switzerland, in the spring. A story by Ekaterina Popova 4, translated from Russian by me.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: this story is by Ekaterina Popova 4; translated from the Russian by me as a gift for Captain Facepalm earlier this year.

* * *

The wind threw yet another handful of dry snow into John's face, and he frowned unintentionally, squinting against the too-bright mountain sun. Sherlock, who was looking in the other direction and seemingly unable to discern John's facial expression right now, reacted immediately:

"You're angry."

"No, really? And how did you possibly manage to deduce that?"

Despite his effort, he wasn't able to hold back his irritation, and Sherlock, with a relieved sigh, turned to his companion. He didn't seem happy about the situation either-but John currently wasn't in the kind of mood to care about his companion's peace of mind.

"You'd said that you like mountains."

In the detective's tone of voice, one could discern a faint hope that the doctor would come to his senses, repent, and stop spoiling his...hm...hunt by the sour expression on his face. Well, Sherlock's hopes were not to be realized-John was tired, cold, annoyed and, therefore, not at all inclined to repent.

"What? Sherlock, liking mountains is one thing, but chasing across the entire country of Switzerland after yet another one of your fans is quite another!"

John turned away, thrusting his hands into his pockets. Damn Sherlock! If he could have at least warned him ahead of time, why he wanted to go to this accursed Meiringen, if he had at least brought his pistol with him...

Behind him, Sherlock cleared his throat-John wanted to hope that it was an attempt to attract his attention and not the beginnings of bronchitis. May in Switzerland, as they found out, was not at all the same as May in London. That is-it was cold, cold, and once again-cold. And also, there was snow. Sherlock cleared his throat again, louder and more insistently this time, and, still not getting any reaction from his offended friend, extended his arm and awkwardly touched him on the shoulder.

"Hm...John…"

John kept silent.

"John, I…" a second attempt. And finally, having decided:

"John, this is the last time, I promise!"

"You said the same thing six months ago, when my former commander nearly shot you dead. And a month ago, you said the same thing, too. By the way, as I see things, you got less trouble from Moran than from that lady with an unpronounceable surname. Curious, isn't it? You are not interested in women, but it is women who manage to hand you the short end of the stick…"

"Krzhizhanovskaya," the detective replied sulkily. "Her surname was Krzhizhanovskaya. And she didn't…"-an annoyed grimace-"...hand me the short end of the stick. I simply didn't expect a sniper to be such an expert in poisons and narcotics-usually a person has one dominant specialty, and to assume that…"

"Yes, yes, I remember. All right, Sherlock, to hell with it. Don't start again. Confess your love to your poisoners when you're in different company, all right? I still start shaking when I recall how your face had turned blue. So-let's drop the topic, please."

"You're the one who asked," he growled. And, after a short silence, added, "John, Evans really is the last one. There were three of them-those who were able to escape Mycroft's and my trap. Trust me, John. Have I ever deceived you before?"

"Umm? Will a simple list do, or shall I cite the dates as well?"

Disconcerted, the detective fell silent. He had clearly expected a different answer. Apparently, he simply couldn't understand the reasons for his friend's annoyance. Well, of course, how could he understand! The fact that, thanks to a certain brilliant person, they were stuck in the mountains, without weapons or sleeping gear, didn't trouble him at all! His brilliance never extended far enough to encompass things of that sort. And meanwhile, it was nearly noon, and so far, their...hm…"guards" still have not contacted them. R-radio silence, damn it! Annoyance at the entire bloody Holmes family hasn't yet reached his peak, but Watson could feel that he didn't have far to go.

The wind became even colder and more piercing. John, squinting, was looking down, at the nearly concealed by the whitish haze mountain meadow, and was listening to the soft breathing of Sherlock behind his back. Sherlock...it's not that he's a freak, it's not even that he's a risk-taker. He's just...just… He's just Sherlock. This fact sometimes annoyed John dreadfully, but… But, on the other hand, half a year ago he would have given his life for one more crazy caper of the detective's. So why should he complain now?

Sherlock gave another small cough behind John-this time, apparently, not deliberately. Watson didn't like the sound of that cough-bronchitis was the last thing they needed.

"All right, never mind. Sherlock, another half an hour-and either our overseers get in touch with us, or I tie you up and drag you to the hotel."

John turned sharply, and, not waiting for the detective's answer, started loping along the path. He didn't need to look back-he knew for sure that Sherlock was smiling contentedly. Since he didn't give any answer to his "threat"...There you are!...Sherlock got John there. To try to appeal to Sherlock's conscience, when he is engaged in a case is futile effort. Even more futile than trying to catch the runaway subordinate of Moriarty's in the snow-covered Alps. Ah yes, sorry, messieurs conspirators-not trying to catch! Merely trying to lure him farther away from the populated areas. Merely that. "Hunting with live bait" was what Sherlock called it, and John was not at all happy about the phrasing.

He was willing to bet that he knew who exactly would be this "live bait". And he hoped only that this yet another adventure of Sherlock's wouldn't cost them both their lives. He palpably missed the pistol in his left pocket.


	2. Chapter 2

John got up slowly, pulling away his fingers from the neck of the man lying on the snow-already cold, and without any doubt, already dead. For some reason, he felt like wiping his fingers-although he realized that he didn't get any blood on them, there wasn't much blood to begin with-one shot, right through the heart, and the blood already had time to freeze in the cold. He'd seen enough deaths-both in Afghanistan and in London-but for some reason, here, in the peaceful tourist Switzerland, death seemed entirely unnatural and out of place.

Sherlock obviously wasn't squeamish in that way-having turned the body over, he felt it, took a close look at the wound, then thrust his hand under the man's fur collar. Tsk'd with annoyance, and, rising, stuck his hands, which had grown white in the cold, into his pockets. What exactly he'd wanted to find and what he did find, John didn't know and wasn't at all eager to find out.

"There's no group anymore."

"Hmm?" John shook himself, realizing that once again, he hadn't followed the thread of Sherlock's thoughts.

"Our bodyguards-or overseers, or the support group-whichever name you like better, John-they're not here anymore. This guy should've been relieved forty minutes ago, but nobody has walked on this path since before noon."

He titled his head back, squinting at the snow-covered peaks, and matter-of-factly summed things up:  
"We'll have to manage by ourselves."

John opened his mouth. Shut it. Opened it again, looked at the gloomy-unusually gloomy-Sherlock...and never voiced what flashed, caleidoscope-like, through his mind.

They were stuck in the mountains. Stuck in the mountains, in the middle of May, without equipment and without even a thermos. More precisely, with a standard tourist first aid kit and an empty thermos instead of proper equipment. Cell phone service is unavailable because of the coming storm. The car, which was supposed to take them back to civilization, hot tea, and the smugly smiling Mycroft, was now lying in smashed remains at the bottom of the ravine...And they were no longer live bait. Now, they were actually game animals. Prey. It would be a true miracle if they were to survive until morning.

John refrained from saying it aloud. Sherlock has probably already calculated all the odds...And, if John has learned anything about Sherlock in the three years they've known each other (well, two years, considering that for nearly a year their interaction was strictly one-sided-via a fake epitaph on an equally fake grave), then now Sherlock was frightened. His long period of solitude made the consulting detective into a genuine adventure-seeker-even more so than he had been before-but neither back then, nor now would he have ever done anything that could constitute a threat for him, John. Only if that happened inadvertently...

John remembered only too well Sherlock's "Stop!" when a pistol was pressed to the back of John's head in Irene Adler's house. And—his breaking, full of horror voice in the phone last June. "Go back where you came from! Do what I say!" And-fear in the voice. Fear not for himself, fear which made John obey that time, even though his entire being demanded that he keep going, find this accursed schemer and smash his genius face, after all.

It took him an entire year to be able to understand the reasons behind Sherlock's strange actions that day. And he wasn't about to repeat his mistake.

"Uh-huh...All right, we'll manage," he tried to instill confidence, which he actually didn't feel, into his voice.

Sherlock flashed him an angry, full of some sort of helplessness and despair look-and swallowed. Didn't make any reply-only nodded and hastily turned away.

At this moment, John would have given away even his pistol (which had been left behind in London anyway, but if…) for the opportunity to explain to Sherlock that he wasn't angry at him over his mistake. And that it would be better for both to die here than for John to have stayed at home and have to live with the knowledge that his friend perished, and that once again, he wasn't there with him...And...John gave a crooked smile, returned the nod and swung his backpack onto his back.


	3. Chapter 3

After an hour and a half, John was ready to curse everything in the world-the Alps, Switzerland, damn Evans and damn Sherlock, in addition to everything already listed. Sherlock was choosing the path they were walking according to some entirely incomprehensible reasoning. Instead of returning to the tourist path (and it was only a mile away, although over rough terrain…), he headed higher, towards the peak, leading them onto a very narrow path, either made by mountain goats or hollowed out by wind, right over the abyss. The width of this "cornice" in some places was barely two feet, and John, who was never afraid of heights before, felt himself getting a bit nauseated when he glanced down. And Sherlock didn't even thing to slow down, pressing ahead with the persistence of a madman. Several times, John felt his heart drop somewhere into his stomach, when stones dropped down from under his feet, or Sherlock's feet, and the heart wasn't in a hurry to return to its rightful place. Every minute, he was expecting the unreliable pathway to crash down-and themselves along with it, naturally. The fact that up till now they haven't fallen off and weren't shot by that damn sidekick of Jim's, was truly a miracle.

Indeed, once, everything nearly ended tragically. Sherlock, who was walking a few steps ahead, somehow strangely faltered, freezing in place-and John anxiously picked up his pace, trying to quickly catch up with him…  
...He made it at the last moment. An entire flood of stones slid out from under the detective's foot, then a fairly large stone fell down-and John, as if in a nightmare, saw Sherlock flail his arms and start falling backwards and sideways, right into the abyss.

All of this-in perfect silence. No scream, no cry for help-only horror and genuine astonishment in the look John caught for a second. As if Sherlock didn't believe that…  
John could not remember how he negotiated the last few steps. He came to when he was already pressing Sherlock to the wall of the pathway-clinging to the cold stones with one hand, and with the other arm, extended across the detective's chest, pushing him into the rock. His heart was pounding in the ears like an insane tocsin, and it took John a few moments to realize that Sherlock was saying something, and not just gasping in air with his mouth.

"...John! John, I'm all right, everything's all right. Let me go, John?"

The meaning of the words finally reached his brain, and the doctor let his arms fall with a groan, going limp and feeling Sherlock, in turn, holding on to him so as not to let him fall.

"You...you, stubborn, luck bastard, damn you!..." he ran out of breath, unable to express everything he'd felt during the last few moments. He couldn't get enough air, anger half mixed with relief was suffocating him. "What the hell, Sherlock! You bloody idiot! You can't look where you're going, not even once in a while!...Damn it, Sherlock, I thought that you…!"

"John…"

"You blasted idiot! I'm tired of burying you, you understand? Can you understand that? I'm tired!..."

"John, quiet," Sherlock suddenly masterfully clamped his hand over John's mouth, simultaneously pressing John's shoulder with his other hand so hard that John gasped with pain. That sobered him up. He fell silent and closed his eyes for a few seconds, trying to master his emotions. Waited till Sherlock pulled his hand away, and quietly finished what he was saying:

"Idiot. Next time, I will sign a paper certifying that you are mentally incompetent. And I don't care that it's fake."

"All right, as you wish. John, listen to me."

He fell silent, expecting objections, but the doctor didn't reply. The reaction was coming on, instead of anger and excitement, fatigue set in, the hands started tremoring finely.  
Sherlock leaned against the rock in a casual pose and started speaking quietly:

"Why do you think I chose this path? Not the tourist path, where there's a crowd of people, guides, and policemen, but this cornice, which is open to shooting along its entire length?"

"Enlighten me," the doctor tiredly growled.

"Snow, John. The month of May, the danger of an avalanche. The snow is regularly cleared from the tourist path, but not from this path. Evans won't dare fire his gun here, unless he wants to kill himself along with us. And he doesn't want to. If he manages to kill us, he'll be able to escape, and even Mycroft will have almost no chance of finding him. He'll have to leave his gun behind and come after us himself. And it will happen soon. I saw his footprints-he'll try to lie in ambush on the next spiral of this path, directly above us. Most likely, he's already there now. Therefore, John-be careful. Now-be very careful. He has a knife, a battle-knife, one issued to officers, its length is around eight inches. We don't need to worry about firearms, but we need to take the knife away from him immediately. We can't afford a lengthy battle. I will now walk ahead, and you will walk thirty paces behind me. If I don't succeed in knocking the knife out of his hand, I will try to engage him in a fight.

"You're not interested in my opinion, right?" sighed John wearily in response.

"That's the best option. Your arm is hurting again, and you're dizzy-I'd frightened you, it's my fault. That's why it's better for me to walk ahead."

"Sherlock…"

"Just back me up. Oh, and also...Mycroft gave his permission for murder. I'd prefer to take him alive-but if anything happens...You know what I mean."

And then, not waiting for John's answer, he started walking ahead. John dragged behind Sherlock, honestly trying to keep the distance. But after just a few minutes he realized that he was involuntarily picking up the pace, trying to have just slightly fewer than thirty paces between him and this crazy suicidally-inclined fellow. Thirty steps is a lot. At least here, in the mountains. And, if Sherlock does run into trouble...John might not get there in time.

And sure enough, he didn't get there in time. Everything happened too fast-even for John Watson, who'd never known himself to be slow to react, the man who came out of somewhere, seemingly directly out of the rock, man was moving incredibly quickly. In the very first second Sherlock, miraculously missing the blade that flashed in the sun, collided with the rock wall, nearly falling off the path from the impact. The impact was heavy-even across the two dozen meters between them John heard the dull sound Sherlock's body made when it hit the surface of the rock. Stunned by the impact, the detective practically slid down the wall, clinging onto it and trying to stay upright. He was still conscious-but even to the naked eye, it was clear that he was fully disoriented, and that he would not be given the time to fully come to himself.

John noticed all of that out of the corner of his eye, almost subconsciously. He broke into a run almost in the same moment when the fight broke out, and now he couldn't get rid of the feeling that at least hundreds of meters, and not two dozen, were between him and Sherlock. Two dozen steps. Only twenty, no, already fewer. Eighteen. Fifteen.

The attacker darted forward with an incredible speed, and Sherlock, by some miracle, managed to evade the knife which hit him in the chest. The blade touched his body, slicing the coat open and, most likely, cutting the skin, and hit the stone with a screech.  
Thirteen. Twelve.

Evans, frighteningly agile, turned around, pressing the helpless Sherlock down with his entire body, and pressing one of Sherlock's arms to the stones with his knee. The blade flashed very close to the detective's neck-and again missed it by a hair. John saw a long cut appear across Sherlock's palm, where he grabbed the knife.  
Nine. Eight.

Not letting his opponent get his knife hand free, Sherlock hit him sharply with his elbow-first in the solar plexus, then, with his arm still flexed-in the neck, on the Adam's apple, which was prominent under the turtleneck. One can kill with such a blow-but only if…  
Six. Five.

Evans evaded the blow. In the last moment, he jerked his head back in such a way that Sherlock's elbow only grazed his neck slightly, and, not giving Sherlock the time to collect himself, he hit Sherlock-with his free hand, under Sherlock's chin, with a horrible, stunning blow.  
Three. Two.

Evans jerked his arm out of Sherlock's fingers, which had gone nervelessly limp. Rapidly bending down, he pressed the detective against the stones, holding Sherlock down with his forearm across Sherlock's chest, and quickly swung his weapon. Already darkened with Sherlock's blood, the blade gleamed dully, and..  
A hit.

A short cry, filled with hate and helplessness.  
Sudden stunning pain in the head and back, when the uneven stones of the cornice struck his shoulder blades with full force, knocking the breath out of his lungs.  
Almost-inaudible ringing of expensive steel against stone.

John crashed onto his back, unable to stay on his feet after encountering Evans, but almost immediately he desperately yanked himself to the side, rolling over, attempting to get up before…  
He didn't succeed. A foot in a ribbed alpine boot cut into his ribs painfully, so that he, before getting up, crashed to the ground again.

Now John could understand perfectly why Sherlock seemed so clumsy in the fight with this...A polite adjective didn't come to mind, and John didn't waste time searching for it. He'd never been the champion in wrestling in his regiment, but he certainly was among the top five. Evans was almost a category above him, however.

The second time, it was much easier to gain his feet. His body, recalling the previously forgotten lessons, practically unconsciously did a backflip and stood upright. The fact that this kind of backflip could have easily sent him into a long flight down the slope, he only realized a moment later; however, he wasn't given the time to consider it or get frightened.

Evans flew at him, practically imprinting him into the wall and making rapid, but surprisingly well-aimed blows. Either he really was such an experienced fighter, or fury gave him strength-but John failed to deflect several painful blows to his trunk and only by a miracle managed to evade the fist aimed at his head.

What happened afterwards, he could never remember in detail. Apparently, Evans tried to press him into the small crevice between two sharp stones. Seemingly, he evaded Evans' grip, and with his strength augmented with his anger, twisted his opponent's arm behind his back. Apparently, Evans hit him with his fist, twisting out of his grip, and thrust his arm under his armpit.

John involuntarily stepped back, realizing _what_ his opponent was trying to retrieve, continuing to subconsciously hold on to him with one hand. And…  
...Suddenly, there was emptiness under his feet.

"Jo-o-ohn!" he heard the wild, masked by the sudden volley of shots, Sherlock's cry, before crashing downwards.


	4. Chapter 4

His insides twisted with a cramp, the unexpected, frighteningly real feeling of freefall hit him with a stunning, numbing fear.

"So stupid…" flashed through his mind, irrelevant and surprised.

...And then he hit the hard rock with his stomach and chest, full force, completely knocking out of his head any few thoughts that still remained there. A few seconds of complete disorientation, panic, incomprehension...And only half a hundred pulse beats which he felt throbbing right in his temples, he realized-he was alive.

Alive. Incredible. Unreal. Impossible.

His ribs were aching from the impact, his head was spinning-whether from the blows he sustained during the fight, or from the fear he'd experienced; his ears were ringing from the sound of shots, enhanced by the echo. And also-his left wrist was aching furiously-Sherlock was hanging halfway over the path and clutching John's wrist in an iron grip.

"It's going to leave bruises"-a foolish thought flashed through his mind. He desperately pressed himself against the rock, clumsily grabbing the cold, frighteningly precarious stone with his hand, and trying to feel for any projection in the ravine's wall with his feet.

And he felt Sherlock's fingers slowly, irrevocably slide off his wrist.

"No, John! Your hand! John, give me your hand, I won't be able to hold on to you! O-o-h, John, you idiot, don't try to grab onto the rocks, hold on to me, hold on!"

He, not wasting time to think, surged upward, almost not seeing because of strain the amount of distance separating him from terra firma, and aiming only for the tousled hair on top of his friend's head. Sherlock's palm clutched his extended arm, slipped off, wet with blood-and clutched in a death grip only nearly the very ends of his fingers, holding on, melting into them, almost dislocating the finger joints. John heard a choked groan from Sherlock, nearly silenced by the shots' echo, and another's hands masterfully jerked him out of the abyss.

"Oh my God, where…" gasping for breath, he blurted out, feeling the even surface of the safe path under his stomach. "Shots, Sherlock, is that…"

A wild scream, which was suddenly cut short, interrupted him.

"Against the wall," the detective ordered, breathing heavily and not answering his question. He jerked John to his feet and pushed him against the rock, forcing him to press his back to the cold stones and standing still next to him.

John refrained from asking what was going on. Everything was clear already. An avalanche. Evans fired a gun, in the mountains, in the spring.

"The tourist path gets cleared of snow; this one does not", Sherlock's words flashed through the doctor's mind, and he hastily swallowed, pressing against the rock even harder and feeling all its sharp projections push against his back.

One minute. Two. Three. Finally, Sherlock nodded in a satisfied manner, "everything's all right, John", and exhaustedly sat down right on the dirty cold stones. John hurriedly squatted next to him, trying to remember where the would-be sniper had hit Sherlock and where the most severe damage could be.

"Evans", Sherlock pressed his hand to his battered chest and winced, almost imperceptibly. "He fired four times. John?"

"I'm all right, he didn't hit me," the doctor shook his head soothingly, making Sherlock move his palm away from his chest and carefully palpating his ribs to check for fractures. Suddenly, John froze, suspicion in his eyes.

"...Where?"

His brain was feverishly evaluating the possibilities-did Evans fire as he was falling, or only before? Where could he have hit? Was he able to aim, or, falling into the abyss after John, was he just firing aimlessly?

Sherlock winced-perhaps with pain, perhaps with annoyance.  
"My leg. Two fingers above the knee, soft tissue, the bone isn't damaged. It's not urgent."

"Oh God, Sherlock! And you call me stupid?! Let me see it right now! Damn you, don't wiggle, let me see!"

Not waiting for the detective's consent, he squatted down and carefully started to roll up the trouser leg. Sherlock flinched and moaned, when the doctor's fingers reached the right spot and started to gently palpate the leg around the bullet-hole.

"What are you looking for?" he weakly snarled, "John, I was bearing weight on that leg, when I pulled you up, and you would be better off thinking about…"

He didn't finish the sentence, but closed his eyes wearily and sagged against the cold rock wall with his entire weight this time. John exhaled slowly, trying to calm down and not to start cursing aloud. Damn… Damn Evans with his damned revolver! Damn Sherlock with his crazy schemes and plans!

The wound was a bad one. Very bad. The bone might not be damaged-but the bullet passed right next to the bone, grazing it right near the knee joint, lost momentum from the impact and stuck in the soft tissues somewhere inside Sherlock's leg. That's where he should have regretted the fact that he didn't think to bring a surgical kit with him. A few years' acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes, one would think, should have taught him-any case, even a very simple one, can end in the hospital or even worse.

John hastily swung down the backpack, about which he had almost forgotten in the goings-on of the last hour, and began feverishly pulling things out of it. Sherlock was watching him with gloomy disapproval, but didn't voice any other objections. John had no doubts that Sherlock had no strength left to argue. He sat slumped against the wall, pale, looking completely exhausted, and shaking. His face was shiny with the large drops of sweat, and, even if one disregarded the pressed together white lips, it was clear that he was on the verge of passing out from the pain.

"Hold on, I'll just be a moment…" the doctor muttered helplessly, pulling out the box which contained the tourist medical kit and feverishly rooting inside. The needed ampoules finally got found, his hands remembered the habitual actions almost unconsciously, rapidly pulling up the analgesic into the syringe.

"All right, the pain will be better in a moment, and then I'll tend to you," he bent Sherlock's arm at the elbow, pinching shut the needle puncture site. Sherlock's skin was cold and clammy, his pulse was bounding like mad, and John didn't need to conduct a long physical assessment to recognize the signs of approaching pain shock. If those who packaged the emergency medical kit didn't pack fake drugs, the pain syndrome should subside in a minute and a half. Until then, he shouldn't do anything-not in these conditions and not with Sherlock, whose pain threshold is about twenty percent higher than that of an average person.

John carefully, trying not to touch the wounded leg, which was awkwardly extended, pulled up Sherlock's sweater and started palpating his battered ribs. First, ribs, then-head, and then one can sort out the scratched-up arm.

"Stop the bleeding…" Sherlock muttered, shaking his head, his speech slurred. "We must hurry, I shouldn't…"

"Right now? So that you would pass out from the pain? No, no, just sit tight for a few minutes, till the medicine kicks in. Damn, Sherlock… I was sure he didn't hit you. You didn't even…"

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at John disapprovingly, and the doctor, embarrassed, finished awkwardly:  
"You didn't even cry out, and I thought…"

"I had more important problems, don't you agree?"

"Oh…" disconcerted, he fell silent, not knowing how to answer this involuntary confession. "Thank you."

The detective was silent for a little while, busily thinking of something.  
"I'm not...John, we must go...Look at the sky, the grey clouds...Do you see them? Soon, there will be a blizzard, we must reach Rosenlaui before that time…"

A blizzard? So soon? That was the last thing they needed… John was doubtful that Sherlock would be able to go anywhere, given the condition he was in. He glanced at his watch, estimating in his mind the onset of the medicine's action, and decisively reached for the first aid kit.  
"We'll get there."

Spring in the Alps is truly beautiful. The snow shines on the mountain tops like an everlasting, never fading crown, blinding the delighted spectators with its beauty and beckoning tourists and skiing fans from everywhere in the world. A little further down, where the borderline of the never-melting snow ends, lie the deep-blue, seemingly so close mountain valleys, and even further down is the expanse of the emerald-green, praised by poets Alpine meadows. Alps is the country of ski resorts, tourist routes and some of the best hotels in Europe.

Now, at the start of the tourist season in Switzerland, the mountains seem loud and crowded. Laughter, flashes of the cameras, children's screams and irritated calls of their parents, trying to call their offspring to order. But if you ascend just a little higher…  
Snow. Mountains. Cold stones, covered with frost. Peace. Quiet. It might seem to people that they subdued this everlasting proud force of nature, shacked it with the chains of bridges and railroads-but this certainty is as fragile as the projection of snow hanging over the mountain path, which seems like a monolith...Until the time comes.

Mountains dislike hullabaloo and carelessness.  
On a narrow stone cornice, overhanging the abyss itself, two people are sitting. Simply sitting, huddled together to try to seek shelter from the wind, and the mountains, surprised, listen closely to a strange, inappropriately flippant for this area, conversation.

"Damn, Sherlock, this is the most awful holiday I've ever had."

"There was also Afghanistan…"

"Afghanistan? Don't make me laugh. Compared to the everyday life in Baker Street, it was quiet and boring there…"

"O-o-o-h yes…"

A sarcastic sniff. The wind carries the sound away, but whoever needed to hear-has heard it.  
A few minutes of silence-and the conversation starts anew, even crazier than the first time.

"If we get out of here alive, you're gonna owe me."

"Do you doubt it? Hmm...all right, and what do you want as a compensation for a ruined holiday?"

"Erm…" the man darts a brief glance at his friend and squints smugly. "A pie. An apple pie."

The dark-haired man winces squeamishly, demonstrating his contempt for such plebeian pleasures, but finally does reluctantly agree.  
"Agreed. And you will return my pistol and stop grumbling."

The light-haired stocky fellow snorts, ignoring the "terms", and closes his eyes in satisfaction.  
"Excellent, Sherlock. Oh, yes, one more thing-you'll have to bake it yourself."

"What?! I never do any baking!"

"That's not a problem-you'll learn. I'll buy you a cookbook."

"John, I'M NOT…"

His shorter companion shakes his head, smiling with the corners of his lips, sad sparkles dancing in his light-colored eyes. And the curly-haired handsome man jerks his head in irritation, acknowledging defeat.

"All right, but you'll have to convince Mrs Hudson to return my skull. Apple pie with cinnamon, you're buying the ingredients."

"Without cinnamon. I don't like it."

"With cinnamon. I like it."

Tired and sad laughter of two people breaks up the mountain quiet. The mountains, surprised, listen closely to these strange sounds, which so rarely disrupt their peace. The mountains remain silent. The mountains are waiting.


	5. Chapter 5

The cold wind threw the small bits of ice into John's face, and he slowed his steps a little, slitting his eyes and looking at the rapidly darkening sky with increasing alarm. About ten minutes must have passed since the moment John left a completely exhausted Sherlock sitting on the path and went in search of a relatively secure shelter from the approaching storm. As if out of spite, the path was relatively smooth, without any caves, platforms or corners. He was almost ready to go back to Sherlock but decided to look around the next rock projection, after all. It was less than 50 feet away.

And he didn't regret his decision. Directly behind the projection, the path curved sharply, seemingly going into the middle of the rock-and there, under the resulting cornice, was a platform. A small one-about eight feet across, but at its other end, the cornice was overhanging it, creating a shelter of sorts. Only a foot and a half of stone-but...It was a chance. Even if this "visor" doesn't protect them from the wind and snow-at least they won't be in danger of falling into the abyss with any incautious movement. Turning sharply, John headed back.

As he approached the meeting place, his worry increased-he realized that Sherlock was hardly likely to follow him, and even less likely to do anything foolish-he wasn't up to it at this point. But he still felt uneasy.

Fortunately, everything was all right...relatively all right. Sherlock was sitting exactly where John had left him, hunched over, as if trying to shelter from the piercing wind, his wounded leg awkwardly extended in front of him. Hearing footsteps, he lifted his head-and John gritted his teeth when he saw the pale, almost white face with the unhealthy bright flush of fever on the cheeks. The inflammation has started. Damnation...They didn't have a few hours, which the doctor had counted on.

"Sherlock, will you be able to get up?" he asked quietly, swallowing the out-of-place question about how Sherlock was feeling. "There's a place not far from here, where we'll be able to wait out the blizzard. Let's try to get there. And once we're there, I'll take a look at your leg. Come, get up, I'll help you."

Not waiting for an answer, he wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist, helping him get to his feet, and swung Sherlock's arm onto his own shoulder. Sherlock was moving sluggishly, taking step after step with difficulty and not even asking any questions. John could clearly see that Sherlock's strength was completely spent and it was only his pride that kept him moving at all.

The detective's limp grew worse with every step, and he leaned more and more heavily on his companion's shoulder. John thought with horror about what they will do when they'll have to walk around that damn rock projection…

Sherlock was unwell. Sherlock was very unwell. He tried not to groan when bearing weight on the injured leg, but John could nonetheless hear a carefully-concealed groan in his irregular breathing. Four hundred steps. A three minutes' walk for a healthy person.  
A nearly insurmountable obstacle for Sherlock.  
Nearly. Only nearly.

They got there after all. When Sherlock, barely conscious, finally walked around the rock projection, clinging to it with both hands, John allowed himself a noisy exhalation-and hurried after his friend. Sherlock, reaching the platform John staked out, simply crashed onto it, completely spent. John almost bodily dragged him away from the edge, against the wall-Sherlock was practically hanging onto him, barely staying conscious. Having pulled the coat off his friend-Sherlock was not really helping him, barely moving his arms-he began building a shelter of some sort. The blizzard could begin at any moment. John was not quite certain that they would survive it. Sherlock was sitting on the ground, with his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms around them, and shivering. It seemed to John that Sherlock didn't even fully comprehend why John took away Sherlock's clothing-but perhaps it only seemed that way. It was quite possible that despite the condition he was in, Sherlock was able to analyze what was happening and deduce the reason for his friend's actions. John wasn't about to try to find out right then.

John's jacket made quite decent bedding, and John, with the last of his strength, dragged the nearly-asleep detective onto it. Sherlock's coat was going to stand in for a blanket and to protect them from the snow at the same time. If it wouldn't get soaked through in the first few minutes, of course… Their legs, of course, were going to have to remain "outside"-but nothing could be done about that.  
He barely had time to tuck the hem of the coat under Sherlock and to slide underneath the improvised blanket himself, when the snowfall began.

Although, "began" is not quite the right word for it. The snowfall simply crashed onto them, fell in a solid wall, immediately concealing everything that was more than half a foot away from them. John sighed, turned slightly, so as to be able to put one arm around the visibly trembling Sherlock-even through his jumper, he could feel the feverish heat emanating from Sherlock's body-and held still, trying to conserve heat. He hated waiting. He especially hated waiting like this, next to his wounded friend, who needed medical help which John was unable to provide. But they'd have to wait. They had to wait out the snowstorm. They had to reach civilization. Or to wait until the rescuers came. Or… It didn't matter. In one way or another-they were going to survive. And to hell with Sherlock's statistics and calculations.

John closed his eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

Several hours must have passed until John, now shaking with cold, felt the sound of the wind begin to change. Or, perhaps, it was minutes rather than hours-the ex-Army doctor, who was always able to wake up exactly at the scheduled hour without the help of the alarm clock, has now completely lost track of time.

He raised his head slightly, trying to avoid turning and letting the snow and wind under the now-warmed up coat. One could still see nothing through the whitish haze, but it seemed to him that the snow was not falling as thickly as before. He pressed his fingers to Sherlock's neck, checking his pulse. Fast and thready, but quite a steady beat. For now, he didn't have to be concerned or to wake Sherlock up-the body uses less energy when asleep, and the longer Sherlock would be able to sleep, the better for him.

The snowfall stopped suddenly-just a moment ago, the large white flakes were falling as if they formed a solid wall-and the next minute, only the shoulder-high snowdrifts remind you of the recent snowfall. It was John's first time so high up in the mountains, and he found such sudden change in weather astonishing. Doubtfully, he raised his head, looking closely at the part of the mountain path visible from the crevice and the landscape farther away. The sun was setting, but it seemed like it would be a good while yet until nightfall. Probably, no more than half an hour to an hour had passed...although John would've sworn that it had been at least five hours.

He sat up abruptly, throwing the accumulated snowdrift off himself and Sherlock, and stood up. Naturally, he started shaking straight away-the cold, which seemed quite bearable under the coat, which had been warmed up by their two bodies, became noticeable now. Hastily, before his clothing could get soaked, John brushed off the remnants of snow off the still-asleep Sherlock, tucked the coat under his shoulders and sides, to preserve the remaining heat, and quickly opened the first-aid kit. First of all, not waiting for the detective to come to, John gave him an analgesic shot, and only after that, with a relieved sigh, he began rifling through his supplies in search of antibiotics. The infrequent but somehow deep cough Sherlock had was not at all to John's liking, and the high and persistent fever-even less so.

The blister pack containing the needed medication was found, of course, at the very bottom of the kit. John pensively rolled the fairly large capsule around on his palm, considering how to get the needed medication into Sherlock. The standard way was immediately out of the question-without coffee, he was likely to choke on it, and to use snow for this purpose… No, no, the last thing Sherlock needs is a sore throat, in addition to all the other wonderful things that have happened so far. The wound inflammation and the beginnings of bronchitis are quite enough as it is. The doctor carefully unwound the improvised bandage and winced involuntarily. The wound looked terrible-the inflammation hasn't lessened; on the contrary, it has gotten worse, reaching almost all the way up to the knee. The skin around the bullet hole was very hot-despite the cold around them and the bandaging John had applied. The bullet had to be extracted… The sooner the better, before septicaemia set in-but given the conditions they were in, even an ex-Army doctor couldn't undertake such a task. In Afghanistan he had proper tools, at least. The folding pocket-knife, which was placed into the tourist first aid kit as an elaborate mockery, obviously didn't qualify as a tool...

Gritting his teeth, John began re-bandaging Sherlock's leg. Then John opened up the capsule and poured its contents onto his palm. That's not the best-but stomachache is still better than dying of pneumonia or sepsis.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, come on, open your eyes. All right, open your mouth at least. She-e-erlock?"

Sherlock didn't even stir. John had to shake him by the shoulders quite hard, before he turned his head and opened his eyes. Pouring the powder from the capsule into Sherlock's mouth, which was limply hanging open, John hurriedly clamped Sherlock's lips together, so that he wouldn't instinctively spit out the bitter medicine.

The detective twitched and tried to get his head free of John's grip, even rising on his elbows a little.

"Hush, hush...Come on, Sherlock, swallow it. You don't want to die of pneumonia a mere dozen kilometres away from the civilization, do you?"

"It's bitter…" Sherlock rasped in response.

"Sorry, that's all I got. I would've given you the capsule, but you won't be able to swallow it-the thermos is empty, and to give you melted snow…"

"Is dangerous…" the detective finished John's sentence. Once again, Sherlock closed his eyes and fell silent, slowly dozing off. Now and then, short bursts of shaking chills shook him, and he hugged himself more tightly-even though it didn't help much. The last forlorn hope that Sherlock, having rested, would be able to walk again, met its demise, with a final twitch. In this condition not only would he not be able to walk-he wouldn't be even able to stand up without help. And John realized that it was only going to get worse from here.

"You're angry at me," Sherlock started speaking again. It took John a few seconds until he realized that this was a statement, not a question. And a few seconds more to think it over. He shook his head in surprise:

"No, I'm not angry. Actually, that's strange, you deserve it."

"We got stuck here because of me… John, I shouldn't have asked you to come with me. This was my case, and I should have handled everything myself…" Sherlock felt silent, choosing his words, and finally, almost forcing it out, he breathed out, "Forgive me."

"Oh yes? Trust me, if I really didn't want to come with you, you wouldn't have been able to drag me here by any means. So-stop it. It's nonsense; none of it is your fault."

"We could freeze to death here."

"I know. Stop voicing the obvious!" John could not stop himself from raising his voice. And almost immediately he fell guiltily silent, glancing at the upset and exhausted detective. Sherlock looked very bad-pale like a not-very-fresh corpse, with cracked lips and reddened nose. He was blinking frequently, trying to keep his eyes from closing, but John could see perfectly well that Sherlock could hardly keep his eyes open and it was only his pride that was helping him to stay awake thus far. John was familiar with these symptoms-Sherlock was freezing. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at present-but inexorably.

John's heart sank painfully once again. Sherlock needed help… Hospital, surgery, possibly a blood transfusion. He could go get help-if Sherlock was not mistaken, it was only a dozen kilometers or so to Rosenlaui. He could get rescuers to come back with him, or at least get a surgical kit. John really was almost ready to do that-an hour and a half of rapid jogging to the village, and the same amount of time to get back. He could return within three to four hours-if he could only be certain that during that time, Sherlock wouldn't freeze to death or fall into the abyss because of delirium! And delirium, with such a high fever, is quite likely.

John stepped out from underneath the cornice. Pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed, not hoping to succeed. Naturally, there was no mobile service. He wasn't expecting there would be, actually. What should he do?! What to do?...Now, all he could do was hope that Mycroft, even though he is busy in the talks about the Syrian question, is checking on his younger brother's progress, at least now and then. And therefore, he'd notice that neither Sherlock nor his..hmm...bodyguards haven't made contact in several hours. The elder Holmes will, of course, be able to draw the correct conclusions. If he's lucky, he'll even be able to determine the exact region where his brother and the brother's blogger disappeared...Uh-huh, and figure out where Sherlock took off to, since they were not seen on the usual tourist route...

However, John was fully aware that there was not much hope for that. Judging from Sherlock's fragmentary explanations, Mycroft will rarely have time to step away from the talks and negotiations...And it will be a while until he is able. By that time, he and Sherlock might no longer be alive. If he could only get cell phone service...Only one call to the emergency services, he'd only need a few seconds. But fate was clearly not on their side today. The mobile service indicator was still at zero, and even emergency calls were entirely unavailable. What rotten luck!


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock's voice distracted him from his sad thoughts.

"John?" a raspy whisper rather than a loud voice. John rapidly shoved his phone back into his pocket and walked back to his friend.

"I'm here. Try to sleep for now. I'll make sure you don't freeze, don't worry."

"No, John, wait…" Sherlock started tossing restlessly, trying to untangle himself from the improvised cocoon, and John, swearing under his breath, hurried to help.

"Listen, Sherlock, don't move! All we need to do is wait for a little while-they're looking for us...Or they will be-so lie still. Don't move your leg, I only have one vial of pain medication left."

"No, John," Sherlock stopped tossing and looked at the doctor standing next to him with a suddenly aware and anxious expression. "You don't understand. We can't wait. The storm is not over yet, look at this clouds, don't you see it?! This is merely a window. It will last about an hour and a half-you'll have just enough time to reach Rosenlaui."

"What?!"

John choked with indignation. All the thoughts about the fact that he had just now been seriously considering this idea himself went straight out of his head.

"Sher… Are you _at all_ aware of what you're saying? You'll freeze to death during that hour and a half!"

"Not necessarily...I...John, I'll try to stay awake. And I'll take the antibiotics at the proper times, I promise. You need to reach the city; there is an emergency rescue team there, all of you will come back for me; I won't have time to freeze."

He was looking his friend straight in the eyes. A completely honest look-far too honest. John felt his jaws clench with anger. A damn hero!

"Don't pull wool over my eyes, Sherlock," he drawled. "You know just as well as I do, that no emergency rescue team will go into the mountains during a blizzard. And afterwards, it will be too late."

"I'm not…" Sherlock began-and fell silent. Obviously, he couldn't formulate a coherent answer.

With a sigh, John sat down next to Sherlock. It didn't take a genius to understand what was going on… Sherlock is trying to save John. And John actually would have enough time to get to the city… Even if the blizzard starts again-a couple of kilometres from here, if the advertisement brochure is to be believed, there is a tourist path, which has been covered with wooden planks and leads to the waterfall, and then onwards to the city, even a blind man wouldn't lose his way there… He could leave Sherlock the medications, set the phone for repeated alarm-every ten minutes or so, to make sure he stays awake… Pain medication, antibiotics, bundle him up tightly...

John sighed. He was well aware that all these thoughts were only daydreams. Rather, they were excuses-they would become excuses, if he were to leave. "I had done everything I could; I didn't know that…"

He knew, and knew very well. Sherlock would not survive until his return. Even if a miracle occurs, and the rescue team leaves right after John's arrival at Rosenlaui. While the cold spring sun is shining-Sherlock will still be able to hold onto a little bit of warmth. But when the blizzard starts, the coat and the jacket won't help him anymore. He'll fall asleep-no matter how he struggles to stay awake, no matter how often the alarm clock rings-he'll fall asleep and he won't wake up ever again.

"John…" Sherlock's voice, soft and helpless, made John look up. He glanced at Sherlock and bit his lip against a sudden sharp pain somewhere in his stomach. Sherlock was looking at him, making direct eye contact, his eyes wide open-and John suddenly realized that Sherlock was saying his farewells.

"...There is no need for both of us to freeze to death. You'll have to leave."

"Shut up."

"Keep quiet for a moment and listen. If you stay here with me, we'll both die. That is stupid. It's not...not efficient. John, I was the one who dragged you up to these mountains-and I don't want to know that you died because of my mistake. No, please, don't interrupt. You'll take your jacket and walk to Rosenlaui-as fast as you can. Once there, you'll contact mountain rescue-the people at the first house you come to will be able to direct you there. John, don't argue!"

He fell silent, closing his eyes and exhaustedly leaning his head back. He was finding it increasingly more difficult to remain conscious. John was silent, not knowing how to reply. Sherlock...Somehow, his words made John feel chilled-and not from the cold. This weary resignation in Sherlock's voice-and the certainty that he was right...John remembered this tone of voice well-back in Afghanistan, the phrase "leave me and go" meant a death sentence for one and life for the other. No sense in both dying, if one can no longer be saved anyway, and the other might survive, if he leaves his friend behind...Arithmetic. The usual, damned arithmetic.

John didn't give a damn about it.  
He called it "not efficient." Damn...computer! Bloody idiot, calculating percentages and looking for efficiency in friendship.

"Fine," he stood up sharply and, his hands trembling with fury, started unwinding the cocoon made of jacket and coat, in which he'd bundled Sherlock up. For a moment, something which looked like panic flashed in the detective's eyes-what, Sherlock, is it scary to die alone? Had you thought it would be simple?! It's one thing to say, with a heroic expression one one's face, "leave me and save yourself," and quite another-to actually remain alone in an icy desert, condemned to a slow death.

And then Sherlock slowly, with an effort, exhaled, closed his eyes again, leaning back against the stones, and his face became very calm. That's it. He'd made his decision. B-bastard...Damn hero! That was a facial expression John was also familiar with. His hands were just itching to punch this heroic mug a good one-just because, prophylactically.

"And now listen to me," he himself was surprised to hear how angry his voice sounded, and Sherlock flinched, as if from a punch, looking at John askance, concern and puzzlement in his eyes. John started speaking, slowly at first, and then continuously raising his choked, dangerously-low voice. "Do you want me to bury you once again? You, damn egotist! Do you know, what I felt when you staged your blasted fall, head onto the asphalt? When I thought you died because I'd been an idiot and had gone to see Mrs Hudson? Do you want me to tell you about it? About how I went regularly to your damn grave and talked to it? How I couldn't even tell my psychologist that you were no longer alive? How I got drunk like a pig, trying to forget how your dead eyes looked, you consulting bastard, and came to on the damn roof of the damn Barts, realizing I was about to jump off it?"

Sherlock gave a start, finally turning to him, his gaze fastening on John's face-as if trying to finally read his thoughts, to understand the reason for this unexpected, totally unpredicted flare of anger. John did not respond to this action. He continued talking. Breathless with anger and the never-quite-gone pain, with the hurt from lack of trust, pouring out everything he never managed to express after Sherlock's return.

"I'm not going to bury you again. Is that clear? I'd had enough. Even if we both freeze to death here-that's still better than returning to London without you and having to explain why…  
Oh, damn you…"

He finally fell silent, unable to find any more words, and sat down next to Sherlock, leaning back against the rock. Sherlock was also stunned into silence, and his face was very expressive. Finally, awkwardly clearing his throat, he said in a low voice,

"John?"

"Shut up."

"John, what you said…"

John resignedly covered his face with his palm. He was already ashamed of his flare of temper. Damn Holmes! He can drive a saint into a nervous breakdown-and John had certainly never considered himself to be a saint.

"Forget it. That's all, Sherlock-forget it. You're scared, I'm scared, we're both wound up...Doesn't matter what I'd said. I'm not going to leave-that should be enough for you."

"John, I…" Sherlock glanced at his friend, sighed and muttered wearily, "I don't want your death to be my fault, John."

"Exactly," he smiled in reply-although he didn't feel at all cheerful. "I entirely agree. I don't want your death to be my fault, either. We'll survive, Sherlock. We simply have to wait long enough for the rescue. We'll lie down next to each other again and wrap up in your coat. That way, the warmth will be preserved longer. I set the alarm on my phone to ring every ten minutes-that'll keep us from falling asleep."

"Damn it, John...Do you know what the odds are of us being found before we are dead of frostbite?!"

"Not sure I want to know…" the doctor muttered. And, louder this time, decided to clarify, "All right, tell me then, you won't leave it be, I know. What are the odds?"

"Less than four percent."

John Watson gave an uncomfortable shiver from these resignedly-calm words, feeling a chill of fear slither up his back. And smiled with an effort:  
"Well, if we don't get lucky, you won't have to learn your way around the kitchen. Apple pie, remember?"

Sherlock didn't respond to this forced joke, and didn't say another word, not while John was carefully bundling him up, trying to cover as many crevices between Sherlock's body and the rocks with the coat as he could, nor when the returning snowfall fell in a solid wall, cutting off their shelter from the rest of the world. The snowstorm-perhaps the last one this year-was piling the small white crumbs onto the narrow cornice, where, pressed against each other, two tiny living specks of dust waited for rescue. The mountains waited too. They knew for certain-much more certain than the brilliant detective and his naive friends knew-that miracles do not happen.


	8. Chapter 8

They say that when you're freezing to death, you don't feel the cold. John Watson, as a practicing physician, could have argued that statement-one stops feeling the cold only during the last stages of hypothermia, and until then, one does, and how. He could have, only if he could have found the strength to wake up, to listen to the smart alecks who wanted to make their statements and to find the words for a thorough rebuttal.

The only thing was, he couldn't wake up of his own volition, the way he used to wake up for night duty first in the field hospital, and later, in multiple clinics. The theoreticians who describe the symptoms of death caused by hypothermia, could be mistaken in many things… However, their ideas will long remain unchallenged-for a simple reason: people who can prove in practice the fact that the described symptoms are invalid, can be counted on the fingers of one hand… And almost none of them have a medical education.

John felt the memories of the last day slowly dissolving. Sherlock, Evans, the shady dealer who understocked the analgesic ampoules in the first-aid kit, the uncaring automated voice in the phone, snow, snow, snow...Perhaps the official medical experts are right, after all. To freeze to death...is not painful. If one waits long enough, it will…

The phone once again burst out with a piercing trill of the alarm, but soon fell silent-the drained battery blinked helplessly, and the screen went dark as it turned off. Nobody was available to turn it on again. The snow was slowly falling onto the almost-unprotected John, and the large fluffy flakes seemed almost warm.

Suddenly, some outside irritant burst into his perilous sleep. Light… Light stung his eyes-unbearably bright, white, blinding. "Light," flashed a sluggish thought. "Light at the end of the trench...no, at the end of the tunnel...That is supposed to mean something…" Some sort of shadow blocked the light, and another outside stimulus was added to it. A loud snuffling.

Hot breath touched his face, and a moment later, so did a wet, moving nose.  
A large St. Bernard whined loudly and started digging John out of the accumulated snowdrift. The snow flew in different directions, there was more light, lound, anxious voices were added to the snuffling-and only then did John realize what had happened. They have been found. They have been found, after all. These same minuscule, unrealistic, naive four percent...They have been found.

"Sherlock," John's arm was stiff with cold, but he moved it with difficulty, and pulling it from underneath Sherlock's heavy, unmoving body, shook Sherlock's shoulder awkwardly. "Sherlock… Come on, wake up…"

Sherlock did not respond in any way, and John, with the last of his strength, turning on his side and shaking off the remaining snow, pulled Sherlock against him. Pressed his fingers to Sherlock's neck. For some reason, he was not afraid-in his mind, he realized that Sherlock could have frozen to death a while ago. He's cold… So cold, and so still. He'd been wounded and John was not, and John didn't give him the next antibiotic dose...How much time has it been since he passed out?

John realized all that-somewhere on the periphery of his consciousness, somehow uncaringly. He _knew_ that Sherlock hasn't died. He stayed with Sherlock so that they both would survive-and they were found. Therefore, Sherlock couldn't die. Couldn't-and that's all. Anything else would be simply impossible.

John's fingers, stiff with cold, couldn't feel anything, and John couldn't figure out whether his fingers weren't sensitive enough, or whether there really was no pulse in the carotid artery. The St. Bernard whined again, and, nudging John away with his furry head, started licking Sherlock's face, with the ice frozen on Sherlock's eyebrows. Only now something like fear stirred in John's chest-oh my God, he… How long had he been unconscious? Five hours? Six? Sherlock… No, please, anything but...

Feeling panic beginning to overwhelm him, he tucked his face into the detective's chin, trying to hear-or to feel, whichever came first-Sherlock's breathing.  
Only now did he feel himself shaking.

"Sher… Sherlock, d-damn you...Come on, you jerk, open your eyes!"

He wanted so badly to punch this idiot in his face, to break his skin, to hurt him…  
Anything, as long as he would wake up, as long as he would answer something…  
With a groan, he lowered his head-straight onto the collar of Sherlock's coat, covered with snow. And…

"John?..."

The percentages are the most precise things in the world...They are never wrong…  
Almost never.

"Apple pie, Sherlock…"

"What?..."

John was laughing. His face pressed into the snow, his eyes squinted shut, his cheek feeling the barely-perceptible breathing of the person, for whose sake he had once again done a foolish thing...He was laughing, and the snow melting with the warmth of his breathing concealed something, which the ex-Army doctor would've never admitted even to Sherlock. Especially to Sherlock.

The detective turned his head slightly, so as to be able to see a piece of the bright blue sky, and, sighing with relief, closed his eyes.

"With cinnamon, John…"


End file.
